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What's left?

I keep asking myself the same questions again and again, no answers... Just like the time before.

I feel it washing over me like the cold winter air when you first rise from this warm bed. How can anyone want to get out of bed when the cold is so excrutiatingly unwelcoming. As if the world is telling me not to bother today... I will not enjoy this day.

This is who I am. The fluffy dandelion who still sways with the wind, with each seed still grasping onto the bud. Hanging on for dear life... Long after all the seeds of the other flowers have let go and flown away.

What am I really refusing to let go of?